The Nameless Assassins

A Special Dinner

"All right, what do you think this time?"

Holding out my arms, I turned in a slow circle in my railcar compartment. Strewn across my desk, draped over my wardrobe doors, and dangling from my bunk was a rainbow of rejected attire: Iruvian robes, Akorosian ballgowns, Skovlander hats, Severosian kaftans, Dagger Islander scarves – how could I own so much clothing from so many different isles and yet have nothing to wear?

Sprawled on top of a dress that I'd wadded up and hurled aside earlier, Sleipnir rotated his eyeballs in my direction.

"Think this will work?" I asked again.

No one answered.

By this point, the two of us were the only ones still living in the railcar. The Insect Kids spent all their time at the orphanage, Ash had long since moved into his mother's townhouse, and who knew where Faith had wandered off to? Whenever we asked, she just scolded us for trying to spoil her "feminine mystique." Having the railcar to myself wasn't so bad, really – it meant that I could hide out here when I needed peace and quiet.

On the other hand, it also meant that right now there was no one to advise me on my outfit and apparently, without realizing it, I'd gotten used to consulting Ash and Faith.

After a few more changes and a lot of snoring from Sleipnir, I finally settled on a pair of leggings that I'd found in a used clothing shop in Crow's Foot soon after I arrived in Doskvol, and a tunic with subtle embroidery that I'd splurged on in Nightmarket one time I felt homesick. The Iruvian style would please Sigmund, while both the leggings and tunic were black in a nod to Bazso. Topping them off with a thick black overcoat, I scratched Sleipnir behind the ears, refilled his food and water bowls, and left the railcar.

As I hailed a gondola and directed it to Silkshore, the rain stopped and the clouds blew away to reveal the moon overhead. Sometimes I felt that it loomed oppressively, as if it were about to fall out of the sky and crush me, but this evening it felt comforting – like an old friend come to see me off to the most important dinner I'd ever hosted.

The Silver Horseshoe was a Sevorosian restaurant whose popularity had surged among the bohemian crowd recently. Its décor was artsy rather than fancy, meaning that the booths and private rooms were draped with colorful felt hangings that evoked a yurt, and the shelves on the walls displayed horse-headed fiddles and Severosian folk art. The furniture was carved with deliberately crude horses, and the cushions were dyed with bright geometric patterns that you might see on a kaftan. I'd picked this place because it was just nice enough that Sigmund wouldn't feel offended, and just casual enough that Bazso wouldn't feel out of place. As planned, I arrived extra early and sat by the door to wait.

Bazso arrived next, also early, looking uncomfortable in his best suit. The way he held his chin suggested that the starched collar was chafing his skin, and he sat down next to me without remembering to remove his top hat. As he pecked me on the cheek, his eyes darted around the restaurant.

"You know," he remarked, striving to sound casual and mostly succeeding, "you never told me what he's like. Apart from wanting to live like a bohemian."

He was right. And it was an egregious omission that put him at an even bigger disadvantage than he was already at. Somehow, I'd forgotten that Bazso's informants weren't nearly as widespread as Sigmund's or mine and certainly didn't reach into Brightstone.

"Um," I began, trying to figure out how to sum up my brother, "he's a lot like me."

At least, he had been until Ixis started his nature-versus-nurture experiment and confirmed that, indeed, if you showered one twin with honors and disowned the other, their personalities and priorities would diverge drastically. A shocking discovery, that.